by Jim Grimsley
The wonder of the place seized me completely and I lived in my eyes. Nixva cantered with a purposefulness that led me to believe we had not yet reached our destination, even amidst this vision of wonders. The forest became open and airy, trees competing less fiercely for the light, which fell in abundance. The sky was blue as if it were burning with the color, tumbles of clouds parading, helpless to resist the wind that impelled them, that tossed the trees, that swept the grass.
We came at last to a wide clearing, set with stones about the perimeter, with a rock shrine at the center. One could tell it was a shrine by the YYmoc carved on flat stone. The rock was craggy, moss-covered, with a smell of age. Beneath the altar, hidden at the back of a carved rock shelf, an old lamp sat, of a gray metal the Smiths make that refuses to rust. I had to get down on my knees to find it, but I thought it must be somewhere; what use is a shrine without a lamp? No oil, of course.
Looking at it, with Nixva behind me making complacent noises, preening himself between mouthfuls of grass, I said, “So this is suuren for today,” running my hands along the rough stone.
Nixva stamped his approval. I walked round the shrine slowly, getting a good look at it, in case Mordwen Illythin should ask me a lot of questions. Surely this must be a famous place, a shrine in the middle of such an odd part of the Woodland. I replaced the lamp carefully and mounted Nixva, meaning to turn him toward camp.
But he stood curiously still. The wind died also, and every sound vanished. The day, the whole Woodland, drew in breath and paused.
Vaguely I heard music, clear singing. Then silence. Far off, at the edge of the clearing, three figures on horseback watched me, draped like ladies of a rich house, their horses stamping, tossing their manes. I saw them only a moment, then they were gone, much faster than they could have turned those immense horses, vanishing more completely than mere tree shadow and distance could account for. A breath of perfume reached me when the wind resumed. Birds began their singing again. Nixva snorted, tugging at the reins.
Three ladies in rich clothes, riding horses that were beautiful even when compared to my own horse, the son of Keikindavii. Arthen has the name of a place where magic can happen. I had a feeling I had seen my first piece of it.
6
I returned Nixva to the Prince’s horse master, Thruil, who took him away to feed him oats and give him such other care as royal horses receive. Nixva suffered the groom’s handling with the ease of any master to his servant, turning his head to me and blowing out his breath; That wasn’t such a bad ride, he was saying, and we’ll do it again tomorrow.
I hurried through the tent city to the Nivri precinct, remembering Mordwen’s instructions on how to find his tent. He was waiting for me in the clearing beneath the banner that flew in front of his pavilion. “You returned at about the proper time. Was this your instinct or the horse’s?”
“A little of both.”
“Then you gave Nixva his head?”
“He seemed to require it.”
This made Lord Illythin smile ever so slightly, and he walked into the sunlit woods, signaling me to follow. “You have respect for him, which is a good thing. If you didn’t respect his wishes, you wouldn’t sit on his back for very long.” He paused in a patch of sunlight, its radiance illuminating his thick hair, his lined face, the dull-colored robe he wore.
After a moment’s hesitation, I asked the question foremost in my mind at the time. “Is Nixva mine?”
Lord Mordwen looked down his long nose at me. “It would seem so.”
“Why were people so angry?”
“Royal horses bear children only once in a lifetime. And Nixva is the youngest of the Keikin’s offspring. The gift of a true-horse is a sign that a house is very powerful. Some of the Nivri had their eye on Nixva. They’ll refuse to understand why Kirith Kirin gave this precious gift to a farm boy from the Fenax.”
“Should I give him back?”
“Heavens no. You would mortally offend Kirith Kirin. Never mind what anyone thinks, the horse is his to give as he pleases. In many ways you’re the wisest choice possible, since you offend all the Nivri and the Finru equally.”
I remembered his own reaction from the morning, and worked up my nerve. “The gift didn’t seem to please you so much earlier.”
Mordwen eyed me thoughtfully. “I will have to remember you have a tendency to ask brazen questions. No, the news didn’t please me at first. But his reasons were good ones. Now that I’ve watched you for a while, it seems to me you’re the right master for Nixva.”
“Why? I’ve done nothing but light the lamps.”
He chuckled, scratching his hairy knuckles on the bark of a tree. “Never mind. We’ll let you wonder what your virtues are in order not to limit their scope by praise. Suffice it to say I do not like children but I find you tolerable and am not in despair at the prospect of having you in the shrine. No more questions.” He touched his finger against my lips; I had indeed been about to let fly with another one. “We are about to take you to your tutor. But first tell me what you saw on your ride.”
“A shrine made of stone, one that looked as if it were carved a long time ago, sitting in the center of a field where the grass was gray and the trees all around were gray, a strange country.”
“Describe the shrine.”
This being the question I had anticipated, I took a deep breath and pictured the heap of stone in my mind. I told him about it, omitting nothing, going into much detail about the lamp, a simple cylinder of metal, much plainer than the lamps used for Kirith Kirin’s altar. I described the countryside thereabouts in more detail too, in case the Seer should think that was important. After I had been talking a while, he said, “Good, good, that’s enough. Do you want to know where you were?”
I had been just at the point of telling him about the image of the three ladies, but his grand manner halted me. “Where was I?”
“Hyvurgren Field. One of the oldest shrines, built by the Diamysaar, a holy place. That part of the Woodland is called ‘Raelonyii’ because the trees give off soft light whenever two white moons are in the sky.” He said this in a dreamy voice, hardly aware that he was speaking to me. But his eyes narrowed slightly. “Hyvurgren is half a day’s ride from here. It’s only just past mid-morning now.”
“We got there in no time,” I said, “Nixva was fast.”
“How can he have been that fast?” He made me describe the place again, which I did. This time, when I got to the part about seeing the image of the three women, I felt a sudden dread and fell silent. Mordwen, fretting about the distance to the shrine, ignored my disquiet. “That’s Hyvurgren all right,” he said, “there’s no other place it could be.”
He recorded my ride in the book he carried, writing in square, bold letters, “The kyyvi rode to Hyvurgren Field, one of the Naming Fields, in Raelonyii.” I could not read the letters but he told me what they meant. He explained Naming Field was a place where the Jhinuuserret received the name from God, the Umiism, as well the signs that accompany a true-naming. These fields are very holy places, five of them altogether, each with a shrine built by the YY-Sisters.
I remarked that I was surprised no one had stolen the lamp in all these years if the Sisters themselves made it; Mordwen only smiled. “I wouldn’t doubt people have tried.”
He led me back to his tent, the book under his arm and the words written in it, “The kyyvi rode suuren to Hyvurgren Field.” I had intended to tell him about the women but had not done so. The omission seemed purposeful, and I said no more.
One chamber of his tent had been converted into a schoolroom. We went there without any further warning or delay, and I met my tutor, Kraele, a woman of Mordwen’s household. Lessons in High Speech began immediately, without any prelude. Kraele told me the name for simple objects, and made me repeat them. She taught me a phrase I have always remembered, “Whatever sun the day brings, it’s best not to quarrel with it.” I went away from the lesson repeating the words.
&nb
sp; It was good after so much newness to retreat to the shrine tent, to tend the altar again, to polish the deniire lamp, picturing the colored light flaming from its jeweled heart. The deniire is the most compact of the ritual lamps, being shaped like a pyramid with a jewel at its crown, a white, clear stone called “iire”, the Eye of God. Mordwen had described the light it shed, a splendid, austere rainbow, colors shifting as the flame consumes the oil. This is a very expensive lamp to own, because of the iire.
As I worked I sang an old song Grandmother Fysyyn taught me, “If I sow beside all waters,” peaceable words in the language of the farm country. I went on singing even when I heard voices in the outer shrine. I was not nervous, I felt no shrinking; rather, it was as with Nixva, the rhythm of the moment carried me. I sang softly in one language, picturing new words in another. As I carried the deniire lamp out from the workroom Mordwen nearly ran into me headlong. He took a good look at me and slowly smiled. Saying nothing, he walked ahead of me into the shrine room.
Many faces, as before. Some of them I recognized, but only one I looked for: Kirith Kirin, fresh from riding. But even he seemed quite far away. I was separate from them, I was, in my mind’s eye, facing the shrine in the wide field in the country of iron trees, the place Mordwen Illythin had called Hyvurgren. I was carrying the deniire to its holy place, to the altar where YY-Mother watches, her single eye the gem that crowned the lamp. I was in the field and the three women were listening.
The last moment of light quavered, resonated, the vuthloven glowing. The muuren went dark. I touched the fire to the lamp and felt the colored light pour outward like a caress, bands of fire, silver, ice-blue. As I sang the Evening Song the light dressed me in richness, coloring the faces before me in the gauzes of sunset, blood-reds, fiery golds, royal blues and crimsons striving with one another. It took one’s breath away. For this reason the deniire must be burned sparingly, Mordwen told me later; the lamp-lighting should not become a spectacle. But that moment was perfect, even Mordwen agreed, I could see it in his face. I finished Kithilunen and felt everyone’s breath go out. I closed my eyes for joy, the rhythm of breathing engulfing me like a sea.
A moment later I was behind the shrine, leaning against the high bronze base, my mind a blank, too full from the day to care.
Footsteps approached and I drew myself erect, expecting Mordwen, maybe come to tell me something I had done wrong. I tried to pack away the exalted feeling, to clear my mind, to set myself on a more businesslike, less rapturous base. But when I turned there was Kirith Kirin.
“You’re a treasure,” he said. “I’ve never heard better singing.”
I said thank you, using the High Speech word. He raised a brow at that. “Well spoken. You’ve had your first lesson.”
“Yes, all day, after the ride. My head is swimming in words. I wonder if I’ll remember any of it tomorrow.”
“Puzzle it out. It’ll be good to hear you speak like a Jisraegen.”
His stern tone made me feel like a child again, after the exhilaration of the first moment.
A shadow appeared beyond the shrine. Imral stepped into the narrow lane. “Mordwen thinks he should come behind, Kirith Kirin, for propriety’s sake. Most of the lords are still waiting for you to come out.”
Kirith Kirin never stirred. He smiled at me. “Tell Mordwen I’m on my way. Tell him to stay where he is.”
Imral glanced at me, skeptically. For some reason the glance made me feel furtive, and I was troubled till Kirith Kirin said, “You’ll have to get used to people watching, too, won’t you? All kinds of people.”
When I raised my eyes he was gone.
I went into my room and sat down on the cot. Mordwen found me sitting, staring, just that way.
Chapter 4: KYYVI
1
Prince Imral’s naming feast took place that evening, far from the shrine tent within which I remained, with only the sentries for company. Yet, in the end, I joined the feast, though not as an invited guest. Late in the evening, without warning, Uncle Sivisal came to fetch me, accompanied by the Ordinary, Gaelex.
“The Prince has asked to see us,” Uncle Sivisal said, and something in his face frightened me. “Do you have a coat? Get it.”
I slipped the sleeved garment over my arms and we hurried along the path. Gaelex and my uncle preceded me without conversation, and I kept the proper silence of a child.
We were led to the Prince’s pavilion from behind, to avoid disturbing the celebration, still in progress. At the rear entrance, Gaelex stood to the side and said to Uncle Sivisal, “Kirith Kirin is waiting.” I followed Sivisal through the tent flap.
He was two chambers beyond, in a small room fitted for a council meeting, cushions strewn about the floor, low writing tables here and there, a clay lamp burning, dim light for late evening. He was dressed in a tunic of rich blue. His dark skin shone. At first he did not look at me. He said, “Thank you for coming, Sivisal,” without moving, and Sivisal bowed his head. We three were alone in the chamber. A breeze stirred the tent walls, and Kirith Kirin’s voice rose over me, deep and firm. “Sit by me here, Jessex. The scouts have returned from your home.”
He indicated a place on the cushion close to him. I sat quietly, saying nothing. From his face I knew he had bad news. I was afraid to move or make a sound. I could feel the tension in his body next to me. I knew I had begun to cry, I could feel the liquid on my face. But I felt a distance in myself. He watched without knowing what to do. At last Uncle Sivisal sat next to me and embraced me, as Kirith Kirin muttered something in High Speech. Then, in Upcountry, “But you don’t know what that means, do you?”
“No, Kirith Kirin.” I watched him stupidly, without a thought in my head.
Trouble filled him, his face darkening as I watched. “Your farm is burned, Jessex. Your family is dead or vanished.” He swallowed, watching me at first, then looking into the shadows of the chamber. “My scouts found some bodies. One girl was still alive in part of the barn that was left standing. She died before the village doctor could reach her. Her name was Mikif. She told my soldiers what she could remember.”
The words echoed in my head. I wiped my eyes with my sleeve and got my breath. “The witch killed them?”
“The soldiers killed them. The witch looked on. Later she questioned your mother. The girl, Mikif, could not remember much after a point. But my soldiers said your mother was taken south.”
He had said all he could say. For a moment I was too stunned to feel. I remembered the story of Commiseth and his daughter Sergil. My poor Mikif. I pictured her as I had heard Sergil described, her face broken, her back a mass of welts; I hardly knew I was still crying or that Uncle Sivisal was still near me. “Jessex,” he was saying, “Jessex,” he whispered it like a chant in my ear. I gave way entirely, leaning against him, hugging him fiercely. I quieted after a while. Uncle Sivisal asked, “Why would they take my sister?”
“I’m not sure,” Kirith Kirin said. He clenched his jaw muscles, and his gaze hardened. “We’ll know soon enough, though. Two of my picked guard are trailing the party south.” He spoke to me now. “If anything can be done for your mother, it will be, Jessex. But it’s likely she’s being taken to Drudaen.”
I closed my eyes. “What would he want with her?”
“I don’t know. But he hasn’t sent Julassa Kyminax so far for no reason.”
“We only had a farm. My father paid his taxes, high as they were. Mother made good cheese. What does the Wizard want from us?”
He shook his head, and Sivisal bowed his. “There is you, Jessex. You were called to Arthen, to my service.” Kirith Kirin went on soberly. “Julassa questioned your mother about magic. She suspected your mother of witchcraft.”
He fell silent then. He was as puzzled as I was; and as afraid. After a time he said, in a voice full of feeling, “Will you forgive me for this, Jessex?”
“Forgive you, Kirith Kirin?”
“This happened because you were called here. Will you despi
se me because of that?”